Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 May 1894 — UNITED AT LAST [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

UNITED AT LAST

MISS M E BRADDON

CHAPTER X—Continued. “The river," thought Constance, white with horror: “the ruins are only a little way from the river. ’’ She ran along the romantic pathway which followed the river bank for about half a mile, and there ascended the steep hill on the slope of which stood the battered old shell which had once been a feudal castle, with dungeons beneath its stately halls, and a deep and sacred well for the safe putting away of troublesome enemies. Very peaceful looked the old ruins on this balmy September day, in the mellow afternoon sunshine, solitary, silent, deserted. There was no trace of nurse or child in the grassy court or on the crumbling old rampart. Yes, just where the ramport looked down upon the river, just at that point where the short, submerged grass sloped deepest, Constance Sinclair found a token of her child’s presence—a toy dog, white, fleecy, and deliciously untrue to nature—an animal whose shapeless beauty had been the baby Christabel’s delight. Constance gave a little cry of joy. “They have been here, they are scmewfiere near,” she thought, and then, suddenly, in the sweet summer stillness the peril of this particular spot struck her —that steep descent — the sunburned sward, slippery as glass—the deep, swift current below—the utter loneliness of the scene—no help at hand. “Oh, God!” she cried, “the river, the river!” She looked round her with .wild, beseeching eyes, as if she would have asked all nature to help her in this great agony. There was no one within sight. The nearest houso was a cottage on the bank of the river, about a hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. A narrow foot-path at the other end of the rampart led to the bank, and by this path Constance hurried down to make inquiries at the cottage. The door was standing open, and there was a noise of several voices within. Some one was lying on a bed in a corner, and a group of peasant women were round her ejaculating compassionately. “Das arme madchen. Ach, Himmel! Was gibt es?” and a good deal more of a spasmodic and sympathetic nature. A woman’s garments, dripping wet, were hanging in front of the stove, beside which sat an elderly vine-dresser with stolid countenance smoking his pipe. Constance Sinclair put the women aside and made her way to the bed. It was Melanie who lay there wrapped in a blanket, sobbing hysterically. “Melanie, where is my child?” The girl shrieked and turned her face, to the wall. “She risked her life to save it,” sdid the man in German. “The current is very rapid under the old Schloss. She plunged in after the baby. I found her in the water, clinging to the branch of a willow. If I had been a little later she would have been drowned. ” “And the child—my child?” “Ach, mein Gott:’’ -exclaimed the man, with a shrug. “No one has seen the poor child. No one knows.” “My child is drowned!” “Liebs Frau,"said one of the women, “the current is strong. The little one was at play tn the rampart. Its foot slipped, and it rolled down the hill into the water. This good girl ran down after it, and jumped into the water. My husband found her there. She tried io save the child; she could do no more. But the current was too strong. Dear lady, be comforted. The good God will help you. ” “No, Gcd is cruel, ” cried Constance. “I will never see Him or believe in H.m any more.” And with this blasphemy, wrung from her tortured heart, a great wave of blood seemed to rush over Constance Sinclair s brain, and she fell senseless on the stone floar.

CHAPTER XI. GETTING OVER IT. Baby Christabel was drowned. Of , that fact there could not be a shadow of doubt in the minds of those who had loved her, although the sullen stream which had swallowed her lovely form refused to give it back. Perhaps the loreleis had taken her for their playfellow, and transformed her mortal beauty into something rich and strange. Anyhow, the nets that dragged the river did not bring up the golden hair, or the sad drowned eyes that once danced with joyous life. And if anything could add to Constance Sinclair s griet it was this last drop of bitterness—the knowledge that hen child would never rest in hallowed ground, that there was no quiet grave on which to lay her aching head and feel nearer her darjing, no spot of earth to which she could press her lips and fancy she could be heard by the little one lying in her pure shroud below, asleep on Mother Earth's calm breast. No, her little one was driven by winds and waves, and had no restingplace under the weary stars. Melanie Duport, when she recovered from the horror of that one dreadful day, told her st ry clearly enough. It was the same story she had told the peasant woman whose husband rescued her. Baby Christabel was playing on the rampart, Melanie holding her securely, a? she believed, when the little one, attracted by ths flight of a butterfly, made a sudden spring—alas! inadame krefw not how strong and active the dear agel was, and how difficult it was to hold her sometimes—and slipped out of Melanie’s arms on to the rampart—which was very low just there, as madame might have observed—on to the grass, and rolled and rolled down tn the river. It was all as quick as tho 'ght; one moment and the angel’s white frock was floating on the stream. Melanie tore down 1 , she knew not how; it was as if heaven had given her wings in that moment. The white frock was still floating. Melanie plunged into hie river; ah! but what was her life at such a time?—a nothing. Alas! she tried to grasp the frock, but the stream i swept it from her; an instant and one

saw it no more. She felt herself sinking, and then she fainted. She knew nothing until she woke in the cottage where madame found her. Melanie was a heroine in a small way after thi§ sad event. The villagers thought her a wonderful person. Her master rewarded her handsomely, and promised to retain her in his service till she should choose to marry. Her mistress was as grateful as despair can be for any service. The light of Constance Sinclair's life was gone. Her one source of joy was turned to a fountain of bitterness. A dull and b ank despair took possession of her. She did not succumb utterly to her grief. She struggled against it bravely, and she would accept no one’s compassion cr sympathy. One of her married sisters, a comfortable matron with half a dozen healthy children in her nursery, offered to come and stay with Mrs. Sinclair; but this kindly offer was refused almost uncivilly. “What good could you do me?” asked Constance. “If you spoke 1) me of my darling I should hate you, yet I should always be thinking of her. Do you suppose you could comfort roe bykelling me about your herd of chiliren, or by repeating bits of Scripture, such as people quote in letters of condolence? No; there is no such thing as comfort for my grief. I like to sit al ne and think of my pet, and be wretched in my own way. Don't te angry with me, dear, for writing so savagely. I sometimes feel as if I hated everyone in the world, but happy mothers most of all.” Gilbert Sinclair endured the loss of his little girl with a certain amount of philosophy. In the first place she was not a boy, and had offended him ab initio by that demerit. She had bsen a pretty little darling, no doubt, and he had had his moments of fondness for her; but his wife's idolatry of the child was an offense that had rankled deep. He had been jealous of his infant daughter. He put on mourning and expressed himself deeply' afflicted, but his burden did not press heavily. A boy would come, perhaps, by and by, and make amends for this present loss, and Constance would begin her baby worship again. , ‘. Mr. Sinclair did not know that for some hearts there is no beginning again. Martha Briggs recovered health and strength, but her grief for the lost baby was genuine and unmistakable. Constance offered to keep her in her service, but this favor Martha declined with tears. “No, ma’em, it s best for both that we should part. I should remind you of"—here a burst of sobs supplied the missing name—“and you’d remind me. I’ll go home. I’m more grateful than words can say for all your goodness; but, oh, I hate myself so for being ill. I never, never, shall forgive myself—never.” So Martha went back to Davenant in her mistress’ train, and there parted with hei to return to the parental roof, which was not very far off. It was hot so with Melanie. She only clung to her mistress more devotedly after the loss of the baby. If her dear lady would but let her remain with her as her own maid, she would be beyond measure happy. Was not hairdressing the art in which she most delighted, and millinery the natural bent of her mind? Gilbert said the girl had aoted nobly, and ought to be retained in his wife s service; so Constance, whose Abigail had lately left her to better herself by marriage with an aspiring butler, consented to keep Melanie as her personal attendant. She did this, believing with Gilbert that the girl deserved recompense; but Melanie's presence was full of painful associations, and kept the bitter memory of her lost child continually before her.

Constance went. back to Davenant, and life flowed on in its sullen cour-e somehow without Baby Christabel. The two rooms that had been nurseries —two of the prettiest rooms in the big o’d house, with French windows and a wide balcony, with a flight of steps leading down to the quaintest old garden, shut in from the rest of the grounds by a holly hedge—now became temples dedicated to the lost. But the business of life still went on, and there was a great deal of time she could not call her own. Gilbert, having dismissed the memory of his lost child to the limbo of unpleasant recollections, resented his wife’s brooding grief as a personal injury, and was determined to give that sullen sorrow no indulgence. When the hunting season was at its best,and pheasant shooting made one of the attractions of Davenant, Mr. Sinclair determined to fill his house with his own particular set horsy men—men who gave their minds to guns and dogs, and rarely opened their mouths for speech except to relate an anecdote about an accomplished setter, or “I.ver-colored pointer of mine, you know,” or to dilate upon the noble behavior of “that central fire Lancaster of mine,” in yesterdav’s battue —men who devoted their nights an 1 days to billiards, and whose conversation was of breaks and flukes, pockets and cannons.

“You’d better ask some women, Constance,” said Gilbert, one Sunday morning in November, as they sat at their tete-a-tete breakfast, the wife reading her budget of letters, the husband with the “F.eid” propped up in front of h’s coffee-cup, an 4. me “Sporting Gazette” at h s elbow. “I ve got a lot of men coming next week, and you might feel yourself de trop In a masculine party." “Have you a-ked people, Gilbert, so soon?” said Constance, reproachfully. “I don t know what you call soon. The pheasants are as wild as they can be, and Lord Highover's hounds have been out nearly a month. You’d better ask some nice young women —the right sort, you know; no nonsense about them.” “I thought we should have spent this winter quietly, Gilbert,” said Constance, in a low voice, looking down at her black dress with its deep folds of crape; “just this one winter. “That's sheer sentimentality,” exclaimed Gilbert, giving the “Field” an impatient twist as he folded it to get at his favorite column. “What good would it do you or me to shut ourselves up in this dismal old house like .a pair of superannuated owls? Would it bring back the poor little thing we’ve lost, or make her happier in Paradise? No. Constance. She’s happy. ‘Nothing can touch her more,’ as Mil ton, or somebody, says. Egad, I think the poor little darling is to be envied for having escaped all the troubles and worries of life; for life at best is a bad book; you can’t hedge even thing. Do'n t cry, Constance. That long face of yours is enough to send a fellow into an untimely grave. Let us get a lot of pleasant people round us, and make the most of this place while it s ours. We mayn’t have it always.” The sinister remark fell upon an unheeded 'ear. Constance Sinclair's thoughts had wandered far away from that oak-paneled breakfast-room. They had gone back to the sunny hillside.

the grassy ram pari,* the swift and fatal river, the bright landscape which had stamped, itself upon her memory indelibly, in the one agonized moment in which she had divined her darling’s fate.

“Gilbert, I really am not fit to receive people,” she said, after a silence of some minutes, during which Mr. Sinclair had amused himself by sundry a venturous dips of his fork, like an old Jewish priest's dive into the sacred seething-pot, into the crockery case of a Perigord pie. “If you have set your heart upon having your friends this winter you had better let me go awav. to Hastings or somewhere. It would be a pleasure for you to be free from the sight of my unhappiness.” “Yei. and for you to find consolation elsewhere, no doubt. You would pretty soon find a cons Jer if I gave you your liberty. ” “Gilbert!” “Oh. don’t think to frighten me with your indignant looks. I have not forgotten the scene in this room when you heard your old lover's supposed death. Sir Cyprian Davenant is in London, in high feather, too, I understand: for some ancient relation of his has been obliging enough to die and leave him another fortune. A pity you did not writ a little longer, isn’t it? A pity your father should have been in such a hurry to make his last matrimonial bargain.” “Gilbert!” cried Constance, passionately, “what have I ever done that you should dare to talk to me like this? How have I ever failed in my duty to you?” “Shall I tell you? I won’t say that, having accepted me for your husband, you ought to have loved me. That would be asking too much. The ethics of the nineteenth century don't soar so high as that. But you might have pretended to care for me just a little, it w »ild have been only civil, and it would have made the wheels of life go smoother for both of ts.” “I am not capable of pretending, Gilbert,” answered Constance, gravely. “If j ou would only be a little more consid rati, and give me credit for being what I am. your true and dutiful wife, I might give you as much affection as the most exacting husband could de* sire. I would. Gilbert,” she cried, in a voice choked with sobs, “for the sake of our dead child.” “Don’t humbug,” said Gilbert, sulkily. “We ought to understand each ''“her by this time. As for running »'ay from this house, or any other house of mine, to mope in solitude, or to find consolation among old friends, please comprehend that if you leave my house once you leave it forever. I shall expect to see you at the head of my table. I shall expect you to surround yourself with pretty women. I shall expect you to be a wife that a fellow may be proud of.” “I shall do my best to oblige you, Gilbert: but perhaps I might have been a better wife if you had let me take life my own way. |TO BE CONTINUED. I